


The Wish Your Heart Makes| A Maybe Just a Way Home Epilogue

by Somedeepmystery



Series: Maybe Just a Way Home [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Domestics, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Friendship, Love, Married Couple, Married Life, Married Sex, Surprises, everyone is wearing early seventies clothing, lol, try not to think about it too hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 16:09:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/pseuds/Somedeepmystery
Summary: It was one thing to dream, to fantasize about the future you wished for yourself. It was another altogether to live it… because there were dreams and there was reality. Dreams were rose colored and tidy...Reality was better. Unpredictable, uncooperative and messy sometimes… but infinitely better.Because it wasreal.





	The Wish Your Heart Makes| A Maybe Just a Way Home Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceans_and_lovers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceans_and_lovers/gifts).



> Happy Thursday! So,there were a few things left of oceans_and_lovers's trope list that I didn't get to hit and some part of me just really wanted to try.It ended up being more of its own short story than a proper epilogue and I hope you guys enjoy it.   
> Originally, I wanted to post this on the anniversary of the main fic's posting date but that didn't work out. Illya's birthday seemed like the next appropriate date. 😁  
> And if you were one of the people who was glad I hadn't done an epilogue, I hope this doesn't harsh on your vibe too much. 
> 
> Huge HUGE thank yous to rose-griffes for being my beta on this and working hard to squeeze me into an already busy schedule, I appreciate it so much. And to Turningleaf as well for tons of encouragement, hand holding and help.

_... six years later._

The barking of the neighbor's dog, sharp but not agitated, roused him from sleep. The sound was altered from its natural tone, warped by distance and the glass of his bedroom window. Illya rolled onto his back, not quite ready to open his eyes, and the rustle of sheets broke the morning stillness. Taking in that first full, morning breath and exhaling it slowly, he took a moment just to listen.

The sound of children’s laughter and the hiss of a sprinkler on someone's lawn told him he had managed to sleep in quite successfully. He smiled to himself as he finally lifted his eyelids and watched the light that danced across his ceiling. 

Sleeping in was an accomplishment; one that, a lifetime ago, would not have brought him pride. Usually, he was up with the sun, going for a jog, working through several martial arts routines in order to stay strong and limber. These things were still important to him, for many reasons, but today was different. Today, he had no agenda, no obligation, nowhere to be, and he was pleased with the late morning light that warmed the bedroom while he was still in it. An odd, perhaps somewhat childish, thrill. 

Of course, it wasn't too surprising that he had managed it. The last two months’ worth of nights, hadn't exactly been well-slept or restful. He supposed that was the price he had to pay…

He turned his head and took in the face of his wife asleep beside him. Gaby's hair had fallen over her eyes and one arm was stretched out across the bed to rest on his pillow, the fingers relaxed and curled inward toward her palm. Her other hand was wrapped around the tiny figure tucked up beside her.

… for getting everything he ever wanted. 

His _son_.

He shifted closer to the pair and raised up on his elbow so he could peer down at the small child. He was latched on to Gaby's breast, one small, fisted hand resting on the swell as if to keep it close. He was asleep. When Illya's movements jiggled the bed, the baby’s chin quivered and he resumed sucking on instinct, before relaxing again. Illya smiled, enamored, and curved a hand around a chubby leg. 

Gaby murmured in her sleep, changing position just enough that the baby detached. He rolled onto his back, fisted hand sliding to his cheek, still sound asleep in what Gaby had lovingly termed a "milk coma." Illya didn't miss the opportunity to enjoy the view of his wife's breast before focusing on their son. He was a former soldier, a former spy. He could multitask. 

He gazed down at the infant, still in awe, even after two months of having him there. His hair was a dark tuft on his head that stuck straight up in the middle, and though his eyes were closed, Illya knew they mirrored the blue of his own. Looking at him ached in the best possible way. A miracle, an impossibility, a dream he had tried for so long not to have. Here, and come to life. 

Using both hands, he brought the little one onto his chest, absorbed the warmth and weight of him settled there, and sighed. Gaby made a sleepy noise of query, and Illya leaned in to press a kiss on her forehead. 

"I've got him," he whispered. 

He climbed from the bed with his son, little bottom resting in his palm, body curled up like a chrysalis, and carried him to the room next door where a bassinet was waiting. The child rarely spent time in this room alone but this morning Illya intended to make use of the separate space. He took a few moments just to enjoy having him in his arms, smell the baby-sweet scent of him as he brushed his nose through the fine hair. When he'd had his fill, he tucked the little one beneath a handmade blanket and kissed him before slipping away and heading back to his bedroom. 

In their absence, Gaby had rolled onto her back, arms flung out in either direction. She was wearing a yellow camisole and one of her breasts was still hanging out of it. Perhaps it should have looked comical but to him it was beautiful. _She_ was beautiful. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. She always was. 

Whether she was behind the wheel of a fast car, or running gun-ready across a field to get to him. If she was dancing to overly loud music, dragging him in for a kiss, or shouting into a push as she brought their son into the world, in every circumstance and every situation, Gaby was beautiful. She astonished him and she was his. His partner, his wife, his love. 

He crawled back into the bed beside her and scooped her up in both his arms, drawing her back against his chest. She mumbled something incoherent and wrapped her hand around his, clasping his fingers with hers and bringing it to her chest. Illya buried his face in her hair, ran the tip of his nose along the nape of her neck, then leaned forward to kiss the space beneath her ear, the corner of her jaw. 

She sighed, a soft, contented sound, shuffling further back into the curve of his body. "Where's the baby?"

"Sleeping for now," he answered. "In the nursery."

He kissed her some more. Running a line of tender busses down the slope of her shoulder, sliding the strap of her camisole aside so he wouldn’t miss a millimeter. He would like to say that he hadn't woken up this morning with an almost singular purpose of being intimate with his wife but he would be lying. It had been months since they'd made love properly. Her body had needed time to heal and her mind and thoughts had been focused on being a mother, caring for the new person they had brought into the world together. And he was patient — mostly patient — and he would keep being patient if she wasn't ready yet but he had been dreaming about being inside her again. 

"You went to the doctor yesterday?"

"Mhm." She was beginning to sound more awake. "The baby is growing fine. They said he is healthy."

"That is very good to hear but _not_ what I meant," he murmured into her skin. He was already hard and he knew she was aware of it when she wiggled her bottom against him. She laughed softly and he could feel it within the circle of his arms. 

Gaby maneuvered so that she could look up at him, her dark eyes open wide as if she were trying to appear innocent. "Oh, you mean _that_." She brought a hand up and ran a fingertip over his chin, making him wait an extra beat for her answer. "Well, he gave the all clear."

The sound Illya made as he kissed her mouth was a cross between a growl and a hum. Gaby opened beneath the assault of his lips and brought her tongue to stroke with his. He gentled the kiss, pulling back a fraction, his forehead pressed to hers. 

"And what about you?" he asked, his body throbbing with wanting her but worried about pushing too soon. "Are you—would you be interested—" his words were cut off by Gaby yanking him down into another kiss, this one hungrier than his had been. One hand held the back of his head, while the other came up to touch his bare side, her fingertips like little points of heat on his skin. She kissed him and kissed him until they were both breathless.

She moaned as she drew back. "I've _missed_ you," she said and he knew the sentiment. They'd been right here, by each other's side as they adapted to their new roles as father and mother. They were a good team and it had been good— beautiful and achingly fulfilling to see their partnership blossom in this new challenge, but he had missed Gaby, his lover. He was more than ready to bring those two worlds into one.

He kissed her again, sliding his hand up under her camisole, his fingers tracing lines over her belly where it was still soft from the stretch of growing a child inside her. He cupped her breast, taking the fullness of it in his palm and massaging gently. He stroked a thumb over the nipple and Gaby sighed at his touch. She shifted onto her back, her hands coming up to cup his face, grip his shoulders as he lifted himself over her. He kissed her lips, her cheek, her jaw, buried his face in the curve of her neck and she laughed, scrunching up at the tickle of his morning stubble.

He kissed his way down to her exposed breast and mouthed at it gently, laved his tongue over it before taking the nipple into his mouth. He got a taste of milk in return and chuckled, commenting on its sweetness. 

"No wonder he wants to stay on here all day," he observed, glancing up at her. She grinned, her fingers pushing through his hair. It had gotten a bit too long and she gripped a handful of it on top.

"They never needed sweet milk to keep your attention."

_No, they certainly had not._ He teased the nipple again, enjoying the feel of it in his mouth, the way it puckered when he released it. Gaby watched him as he gave the same treatment to the other breast and he wondered at the contrast for her, to watch their son at her breast for nourishment and him at her breast for pleasure. Her gaze was heated, lids at half-mast and, as he settled his body onto hers, she hooked a leg over his side and rolled her hips against him. Illya took it as a sign that she was enjoying the attention. 

His fingers were restless as he pushed the satin camisole up out of the way so that he could kiss the skin of her belly. His wife tensed slightly but he soothed her with his mouth, kissing the line of stretch marks just below her navel. There were other marks on Gaby's body that hadn't been there the first time they made love and he knew the stories behind all of them—as she did his—and these were no less honorably earned. The panties she wore were simple and practical, blue cotton that he dragged down her legs before kissing his way back up her inner thighs. Gaby bit her lip as she opened to him, spreading those legs that he still admired endlessly. She grinned widely at the hungry look he must have on his face, bent one leg up and waggled her knee. He whimpered, he wasn't ashamed to admit it, and bowed forward, kissing the point of her hip before nosing at her curls. Her fingers pushed into his hair, a familiar sensation that had him getting instantly harder.

"Is that the time?" Gaby's hold on his head changed suddenly, keeping him at bay instead of bringing him closer and tension bolted almost visibly through her body. He frowned, looked up at the clock on her nightstand, then turned his wrist to check his watch. 

"Yes," he told her, and he was proud of the lateness. His success at being lazy on a Sunday morning, _this_ Sunday morning, in particular. "It is almost ten."

"Ten!" 

Gaby flung her leg over his head and flew out of bed. Illya blinked down at the now empty space beneath him, bereft. His stiff cock throbbed against the mattress and his tongue felt suddenly deprived. “What…”

"Mrs. Simmons's air conditioner is down and I told her you would fix it today," she was saying from somewhere behind him; he was still staring at the white sheets where she had just been. 

Finally, he rolled onto an elbow and watched as she donned the persimmon-colored dressing gown he'd gotten her for Christmas. His eyes narrowed. "You told her I would fix the air conditioner _today_?"

Gaby turned back at him, frowning as she flipped her hair free from the collar. "Of course. She's an eighty-year-old woman and it's supposed to be in the hundreds." 

He continued to watch her as she ran a quick brush through her hair, his chest feeling oddly tight. 

"I'll get the coffee started." She swept from the room and Illya stared after her, a look of confusion clouding his face. 

He hadn't expected anything big, she knew how much he hated a fuss, but… had she actually _forgotten_ it was his birthday?

…

When Illya stepped out into the sunlight thirty-nine minutes later, he knew why the neighbor kids had the sprinkler running. The temperature was already soaring. He hefted his toolbox onto his shoulder and walked the block to Mrs. Simmons's house, taking in his suburban neighborhood with the same mixed feeling he had from the beginning. 

It couldn't possibly be more _American_. 

Little house after little house, lining the street with their white, picket fences. Shiny cars in the driveways as their capitalist status symbols. It was not the place he would have chosen to live. 

But the people were nice. Kind. Not one of them had scowled or turned away when his accent was revealed, no one treated Gaby oddly for being a mechanic and, when Gaby had gone into labor while he was across town on a job, it had been their neighbors who had gotten her to the hospital safely, their neighbors that sped through the streets to get to him, receiving a speeding ticket for their effort. 

As much distaste as he had for this system of economy, he couldn't dislike these people. They were good people. They took care of each other. He knew it was no accident they had ended up here and the thought hummed about in his mind as he walked, neither good nor bad but simply… _so_.

Mrs. Simmons's house was sweltering when he stepped through her front door and he instantly forgot all the irritation from his disrupted morning when he took in her appearance. Wispy, white curls clung to her forehead with perspiration and the usually chipper old woman seemed as if she had wilted. 

"Oh, Illya dear, thank you so much for coming," she was saying as she led him through her house to the backyard where the central A/C unit was located. "I know it's a Sunday and you should be home with that little boy of yours but the darn thing just went kaput!"

"Is no problem," Illya said, setting his toolbox down. "I am happy to do it for you. I would not want you to suffer in this heat."

"You are such a dear." She patted his shoulder with a light hand. "I'll go make you some lemonade. Oh, and cookies. I've got some cookies too. Would you like some cookies?"

Illya chuckled quietly as he stripped down to his undershirt, already sweating. "That would be nice, thank you."

It took him over an hour to locate the issue because it wasn't any of the things that usually went wrong with Mrs. Simmons’s particular A/C unit. He dug around, even crawled under the house to check the wiring. He had the unit almost completely disassembled before he found the culprit and the moment he did he was suspicious. Lifting the small piece of metal up to the light, he studied it with a frown. 

It wasn't that the small part _couldn't_ have broken on its own, it was just that it was incredibly unlikely, and he was not fond of unlikely occurrences. Illya stood and looked out over the fence to the backyards that stretched beyond. He heard the sound of Mrs. Simmons's television and the laughter of children at play. He could see a group of them enjoying a swing-set one yard over. Somewhere, "Sooner or Later" by The Grass Roots was playing through someone's window. He recognized it because Gaby had taken to turning up the volume every time it came on the radio. 

He turned the piece over in his fingers, his spy brain telling him something was there, something needed to be investigated, something to be cautious about… but he wasn't a spy anymore, and this was a safe neighborhood with good people. Who would go through all this trouble to overheat an old woman’s home? And _why_? He couldn't think of a reason. 

He rigged a temporary solution to get Mrs. Simmons through the day. He wouldn't be able to properly fix it until he could order a new part, but at least she wouldn't suffer until then. He was just finishing up when she stepped outside with another glass of lemonade. 

"All finished," he told her, using his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow. "You will be cooling off in no time."

"Thank you, dear!" she said, holding out the chilly glass. "You really are a lifesaver."

…

Gaby had hardly gotten Illya out of the house before the knock came. She held her breath and threw open the door to find Napoleon standing there, looking at her with a raised brow. "Cutting it a little close aren't we?" he asked as he stepped inside. "I had to duck into the neighbor’s bushes to keep from being seen."

"He slept in!" Gaby exclaimed, plucking some debris from his hair and the long collar of his floral shirt. She left him to close the door and hurried into the kitchen. 

Solo followed her. "He never sleeps in," he commented. "Ever. Even sleep-deprived and wounded the man has to be drugged to sleep in past dawn."

"I know!" She tossed a hand up in the air. "I feel terrible." She poured a cup of coffee for Solo then one for herself. "He seemed so proud to have managed it." She felt terrible about a few other things as well, not the least of which was the low buzz of arousal that was still humming in her blood. God, it had been so _long_! Even before the baby had come actual intercourse had become near to impossible. They'd had other ways of pleasing each other, of course, but Gaby missed the feeling of him inside her. She took a somewhat petulant sip of her coffee. How dare he sleep in so late! If he had woken her earlier they might have had time…

Solo's voice tore her from her thoughts. "I haven't seen you in weeks and the only greeting I get is a diatribe about Peril's sleeping habits?" he demanded, bringing the cup she'd offered closer but not drinking it. 

She gave him a playful roll of her eyes and came around the counter to throw her arms around him. "You're so needy since we left," she teased, squeezing him tight and then patting his cheek as she pulled away. 

"To be expected," he told her. "It's entirely your fault, the two of you, acclimating me to partnership and then abandoning me."

"Extenuating circumstances," she said lightly. "Besides, I hear there is an opening in the requisitions department. You could work from… somewhere nearby."

"Very funny." He took a sip of the coffee and hummed with appreciation. "I'm not quite ready to give up the life."

Gaby pulled a selection of meats and cheeses from the fridge, quickly assembling them both a breakfast plate. "I didn't think I was either but…" She smiled to herself as she sliced up the bread. "I'm actually very happy."

Solo paused, those keen eyes reading her. "I believe you are." He shook his head. "Imagine that."

She was grinning at him with her dimples when the sound of a baby fussing quietly came through the speaker Illya had installed next to the sink. "There he is." Her tone was filled with affection and she shoved a quick bite of food in her mouth before hurrying down the hall. 

She and Illya had painted the nursery together: a very soft yellow that made her feel like she was walking out into the spring sunlight. Memories of the time were still vivid in her mind, the surreality of it all, the sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop that both of them had felt. She thought of the stern way Illya had focused as he ran the brush along the corners, his brow furrowed, intent — until she'd attacked him with a paint-covered finger. They'd made love in the middle of the floor. That memory made itself felt a little more than usual this morning. 

Crossing the room, Gaby tucked her hair behind her ears as she peered down into the bassinet. Her son was looking up at her with wide, blue eyes. "Good morning," she cooed. He waved his hands and kicked his legs in uncoordinated glee, excited to be picked up. 

He was a very contented baby. Though her experience with children was still limited, she had expected things to be a little more chaotic. Instead, she'd been blessed with the world's happiest infant. 

"Your Uncle Solo is here," she announced as she lifted him into her arms and carried him to the changing table. She diapered him with practiced ease, her mind drifting back to the first diaper she had ever changed with a bittersweet sense of nostalgia. "And we have so many things to do to get ready. Today is your father's birthday and we are surprising him. Parties aren’t his favorite things but…" She picked him back up, now fresh-bottomed, and watched as he tried to catch his fist in his mouth and suck on it. Pressing a kiss into the side of his head she insisted, "…he will like this one. I'll make sure of it." 

She would normally feed him there, in the nursery, where there was a very comfortable chair and a copy of the book she was reading, but instead she carried him out to the living room where Solo was waiting. She sat down in Illya's usual chair and used a pillow to prop her arms up in a comfortable position. Solo raised his eyebrows and turned his head away when she took her breast out to latch the baby on and Gaby laughed. 

"First of all, you've already seen them dozens of times and secondly, they are breasts. This is the reason they exist."

He chuckled along with her and turned back, settling into his seat again. His gaze touched on the baby and then lifted to her face. "I suppose that is true enough."

Gaby sighed and looked down at her son. "There's so much to do. It won't take Daddy that long."

"Well.” Solo stood to his feet. "That is why I'm here, isn't it?"

Gaby looked up. "You're here because we love you." She took delight in his reaction to the blunt statement: surprised and a little guarded. Before he could deflect, she continued. "And to help. The others will be here soon and there's a list on the table."

He gave her a small bow. "I'm on it."

"Napoleon, would you do me another favor first?"

"Anything, my dear."

"Bring me my breakfast."

…

Just under an hour later Gaby was dressed in a new coral blouse and dark green slacks. She stood on her back deck surveying their handiwork, her teeth scraping over her lower lip as she took note of the balloons and streamers that had been hung from the trees. She had tried to keep it from being too much but people had gotten carried away. She supposed that was the spirit of a party.

Illya was going to be grumpy about the excess and the thought had her biting back a tiny smile. On the surface, Illya hated this kind of fuss and attention. Some of that was his natural reserve, some was from his upbringing, but much of it was because, deep down, he still didn’t feel he was deserving of people’s energies, their efforts. It was one of her life’s goals to show him otherwise.

She patted her son’s cushioned bottom and kissed the side of his head. “You will help me with that, won’t you, _Herzchen_?”

“Which table would you like to put the food on, Miss Gaby?” young Corinne Balkin asked, coming up to Gaby as she descended the steps. The girl had a checked tablecloth half unfolded in her hands. 

“The one closest to the grill, please. Keep everything close together,” Gaby said, tilting her head that direction; the girl nodded and hurried off. Her mother was waiting for her there and Gaby watched them unfold the table cloth together, smoothing it out with practiced hands. 

Across the yard, Mr. Anderson was blowing up even more balloons and laughing with Mr. Finch and the others. Now familiar faces exchanging stories and sharing ideas.

Gaby had never expected this life, the gift of neighbors. In East Berlin, neighbors had been an enigma. _Unbekannte._ There were the ones who would drop everything to help you, the ones you felt community with under the shared situation, and then there were those waiting to find out your secrets, to inform on you so that they could perhaps buy themselves a little better situation. You never knew which were which.

It was a hard concept to let go of. 

Gaby looked over the people gathered in her yard. Mrs. Balkin and young Corinne with the tablecloth. Mr. Anderson and Mr. Finch blowing up balloons. All the others. The machinations Waverly had performed… these people were as safe as humans _could_ be. 

A loud popping sound yanked Gaby from her musings. Everyone in the yard jumped, one of the women letting out a startled cry. Gaby spun away, instinctively putting her body between her son and any danger, both hands holding him close. Then laughter filled the air and she turned cautiously back around. The balloon Mr. Finch had been blowing up had burst and Mr. Anderson had a large piece of blue latex across his face, shrapnel from his friend’s over inflation error. Her heart pounded a few more times, taking a little longer to get the message of safety than her brain. She ran her gaze over the crowd of giggling, teasing people. _Her_ people now, she supposed. 

And they had come to her rescue again. Her house looked perfect and smelled amazing; all the small things that had been neglected for the last two months set to rights. Her yard looked tidy and festive. They had even brought food. Sweet and savory treats that she could just pop into the oven. She was beyond grateful.

She sighed at the thought of all she owed them, and went to check on Mr. Anderson. 

After doing a quick round to check on the progress and giving each person a heartfelt ‘thank you,’ Gaby returned to the deck to get an overall view. Turning her wrist, she took note of the time on her watch and a flutter of worry swept over her. They had done an amazing job but she needed them to leave soon. She would never be able to hide a house full of people from Illya and this was supposed to be a surprise, not an ambush. Besides, her gift was best given without the abundance of visitors.

She glanced at her wrist again, wrestling a bout of anxiety. 

_If it works. Please, let this work_. 

Solo stepped out from behind her with a stack of plates. He stopped and looked over the yard himself. “I hate to tell you this, Gabs, but backyard BBQ? It’s rather… _American_ for our Red Peril’s birthday don’t you think?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s kind of the point.” She smiled up at him. “And, he might as well get used to it.” She peered at her watch again and then blew out a slow breath. Solo put a hand on her shoulder and she tried to smile up at him again. "I'm sure they'll be here soon." She didn’t sound nearly as confident as she had been hoping. She saw the moment he read her anxiety and tried to laugh it off. "I just hope they beat Illya."

"Gabs, it's Waverly," he told her softly. "When has he not come through?"

What a question! Her mind spun thinking of all the ways in which Waverly had come through for her since the day he'd walked into her auto-shop with his three-piece suit and crinkled smile. Including the most recent event, involving her exit from spy life and the carefully-crafted defection of her husband. So many ways… but it certainly hadn't always gone smoothly. 

"What if something went wrong?"

Solo shook his head. "She's in the country or we would have heard from him by now."

"Here," she ordered, offering him the baby. "I'm going to get the communicator."

Solo's eyes widened as he looked down at the infant. "No, I don't really think—"

"For God's sake, Solo, he's a baby, not a bomb.”

He took the child gingerly and held him out from his body with both hands. "It's not fiery explosions I'm worried about." He looked the little one over. "It's other sorts of… discharge. Like drool, vomit, other… bodily fluids."

"I'll take him, Miss Gaby," Corinne offered, hurrying over at the sight of the exchange. 

"Thank you," she said, tossing Napoleon a dirty look as she took her son back and passed him to the younger woman. "Can you help wrap this up? I'll be right back."

…

Gaby hurried through the kitchen, down the hall, and out the door to the garage, pushing the button that opened the wide door so that she would have sunlight to see by. Hands on her hips, she did a quick scan of all the, as yet unpacked, boxes and landed on a line of them labeled, ‘Office.’ 

She had just found the small, pen-shaped communicator they had all once carried on a daily basis, when she looked up and spotted Illya coming toward her up the driveway. Her heart did that ridiculous thing it always did at the sight of him and, with the way the sun lit him up golden, his light blue shirt unbuttoned to reveal an undershirt that clung to his torso, her body had a few responses of its own. Especially when he locked eyes on her and increased his pace. 

He walked right up to her, the heat of his body preceding him, along with the scent of his aftershave, clean sweat and sunshine. The intensity in his blue eyes caught her, like a deer in a car's headlights, as they swept hungrily over her face. Gaby tilted her head back to maintain the mesmerizing eye contact when he moved in close, their bodies nearly touching. He thumped the toolbox down on the work table behind her and she gasped as he lifted her up next, setting her on the table beside it. Without hesitation, he slid between her thighs, dragging her in until there was no space between them. His low hum of satisfaction at the contact made her smile and he kissed it from her.

It was a hard, needy kiss that made her body melt into his, that undercurrent of arousal she'd been fighting all morning reasserting itself. She made a greedy sound and kissed him back, clutching the back of his head and shoulder, with the communicator still in her hand. 

Illya's mouth shifted to kiss the space beneath her jaw. "Where's the baby?"

"He's —" it was a reminder of why this couldn’t happen right now and she started to pull back — she was sure she started to pull back — but then he was sucking at her pulse point and her eyes closed on the achingly perfect sensation of it, echoing pleasure from that point to every other nerve ending in her body. " _Mmm, Illya…_ "

His hands were broad on her back, holding her tightly to him as he kissed her neck, pulled the collar of her blouse aside to get to more of her skin. "Gaby…" His voice was little more than a rumble that cascaded over her skin, bringing goosebumps in its wake. "I _need_ you."

Her breath caught at that desperate plea, her core flinching with its own wanting, but there was a reason they couldn't do this right now… a very _important_ reason. She knew what it was but words were lost to her as his hands slid to her hips, tugging her in closer and pushing the hard length of his erection intimately against her. 

"Oh _god_ ," she moaned. "We _can't_ , Illya…" 

He grunted in disagreement, plying her with another roll of those hips, the sensation of it so sweet is made her weak. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw the sunlight over the top of her Barracuda. "The garage door is open," she murmured. 

Illya reached over and slammed his hand down onto the button to lower said door. The loud sound of the motor and the rattling chain filled the air as he descended on her mouth again and Gaby abandoned herself to his kisses as the shadow of the door fell over them, casting them in darkness. 

_Just a bit more_ , she thought, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him back. _Just a little more to tide me over._

"Well," came Solo's voice from the doorway and Illya practically leaped away from her, his head whipping around to their partner. "I wasn't expecting a show." Solo reached out and hit the button again and the garage door started to slowly roll back up. 

"Cowboy. What are you doing here?" Illya demanded. "I thought you were in Singapore?"

Solo's eyes darted to Gaby but returned quickly to Illya. "I completed my mission and thought I'd come see my old partners."

Illya stared at Solo for several beats, then his eyes widened as he spun back to Gaby. "What did you do?"

Gaby held up her hands. She was still a bit lost in the haze of arousal he had stirred up inside her. Her husband's eyes may have still been dilated but he was cooling off much quicker than she was. She opened her mouth to explain but he cut her off, taking another step back and pointing a finger at her. 

" _You._ " He narrowed his eyes. "You disabled Mrs. Simmons's A/C! Do you know how hot it was in her house when I got there?"

Gaby pulled back, indignation batting away the softer feelings. "You weren't supposed to sleep until ten!" she demanded. "You _never_ sleep in!"

"I was trying to —" his gaze landed on the item her hand. "Why do you have that?"

Gaby glanced at the communicator and the reason she had come out to the garage in the first place came rushing back. She lifted her chin and shrugged, tucking it behind her back. 

"Not to rain on this lovely ‘couple' moment you are having," Solo drawled. "But Peril might want to shower before… things get fully underway."

The muscles in Illya's jaw rippled and he looked between them. "A _party._ " He spat the last word, stressed it as though it were a curse. The look he gave Gaby was one of mild betrayal and she bit her lip. 

“Illya…” Gaby appealed softly. 

“Where _exactly_ is my son?”

As if on cue, the sound of a baby crying met their ears and they turned to the door. Corinne appeared with him a second later and Solo stepped aside, giving the pair a wide berth.

Husband and wife both hurried toward the teenager, who balked when she saw Illya. She turned an apologetic look on Gaby. "I'm sorry," she offered. "I changed him but I think he just wants you." 

“Thank you, Corinne,” Illya said softly. “It is all right.” He took his son from her, nestling him into the crook of his arm and gazing down at him. "What is this?" he asked in a deep, gentle tone. "You are not happy with a party either? I understand completely." 

He looked at Gaby from the corner of his eye and she huffed, crossing her arms. She watched as Illya softened in the presence of his son, the wonder that always overtook his face at the sight of him. His large fingers brushed the soft dark fuzz on the infant’s head. 

“Come, _malen'kiy._ I am grimy from working and apparently we have guests.”

Gaby’s eyes followed Illya as he walked into the house then turned pointedly to Solo, giving him a meaningful look. Solo shrugged. Gaby tilted her head toward the backyard. He opened his mouth on a silent ‘ah,’ and nodded; message received. He headed toward the backyard with Corinne and Gaby hurried inside after her husband. She pushed past him when she caught up with him in the narrow bathroom, reaching into the shower/bath combo to turn on the water. 

“You’re going to be stubborn about this aren’t you?”

Illya closed the door behind them. “Yes,” he said simply, handing her the baby as he started to undress. 

Gaby rolled her eyes but her gaze quickly fell to the hem of his shirt as he lifted it, tracing the line of his abdomen as it was revealed, the glistening of sweat at the center of his chest, the familiar scars. 

Patting the baby’s back absently, she watched his hands unfasten his trousers and push them off along with his boxers, leaving him completely naked. His flagging erection caught her attention and she felt the sharp tug of need low in her belly. She closed her hand into a fist to keep from reaching out to touch him.

Illya stepped closer and she brought her focus to his face. He had caught her and his eyes were hot, falling to her mouth before lifting to lock with hers. 

“Do not look at me like that, _Solnyshka,”_ he said darkly, though the nickname eased her. He had never called her that in anger. “This is all your fault.” He leaned in and kissed the side of her neck. Damn him, he knew what that did to her. “If it were up to me…” His deep voice and warm breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of her throat. “I would take you in the shower.” His lips brushed teasingly, making her tremble. “If not for your little machinations, I would have _had_ you already.”

Damn him. 

“Illya…” She felt light and heavy all at once and it was only her son’s weight on her shoulder that kept her grounded in reality.

Her husband pulled back and looked her over. She knew he could read the arousal on her, see the dilation in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks. She lifted her chin and held his gaze. She was not ashamed of wanting him, nor the reason she was delaying both their gratification.

He reached out and took their son back and started working off his gown. Since Gaby did all the feeding, Illya’s favorite thing was bathing - which often included father/son showertime. “Go back to your guests, wife,” he taunted. “We will join you when we are finished.”

Gaby let herself take in the sight of him a moment longer, tracing the beautiful hard lines of his muscled body with her eyes, then moved to leave, striving not to let him get the better of her. His hand stopped her mid-turn, cupping the back of her head and tugging her back in. His mouth closed over hers in a greedy kiss, his tongue sweeping in to dominate, sliding wickedly, a display of prowess as well as longing. Her knees wobbled and, when he released her, she had to lean on him, one hand settling on his chest to keep her balance. 

“Not fair,” she whispered. He smirked at her and pushed in for another quick kiss, nudging her nose with his.

“You had better go, or they will wonder where you are.”

Gaby sighed and shook her head at him. The desire to argue rose up sharply and she bit back on the reply. She wasn’t going to let him ruin her well-laid plans. “ _Unverbesserlicher Mann.”_

She pushed off his chest and left the room, snapping the door closed behind her. Leaning back against it, she let out a sigh of frustration. Her heart was pounding, her blood running hot. She closed her eyes and let it settle. Damn the _timing_ of it all.

Just three weeks ago she had been wondering if her libido would _ever_ return. She’d felt so physically tired, so mentally focused on her new role as a mother — sexual desire had been starkly absent. It had been more than a little unsettling…then she had walked in on Illya in the shower. Naked and wet, his eyes closed and lips slightly parted as he stroked himself beneath the spray. 

He had looked at her with such _guilt_ , apologizing for still having needs, for not waiting for her. She’d been so moved by her love for him, the desire to let him know it was all right, that she’d stripped down and joined him, using her own hands to bring him to orgasm. He had protested at first but he had already been so far along. Her touch had made him shake and the look on his face, the sounds he made, had awakened that part of her that had been sleeping. Arousal had swept through her with the gratification of making him come undone.

At the time she still hadn’t gotten clearance from her doctor to resume intercourse. Instead, Illya had swept her up and carried her to their bed, brought her to climax with his mouth. She’d clung to him and laughed with relief. She was still herself, still Gaby, still Illya’s lover. 

“You were in there awhile.” Solo’s voice jarred her from the memory. “Something interesting _come up_?” His grin slid sideways into a smirk and Gaby stood up sharply as she glowered at him.

“You,” she said with a finger pointed as she hurried toward him. “Shut up. I need to find the communicator. I dropped it.”

“No need,” he held up the phone receiver, the twisted cord swaying as he waved it at her. “They just left the hotel.”

Gaby’s pulse jumped and she laid a hand over her heart, pounding away for a whole new reason. “Okay, okay…”

Solo took pity on her, sliding her arm into the crook of his elbow. “Let’s clear the area so this surprise of yours can come in for a safe landing.”

…

Illya checked the hall before crossing to the bedroom with a towel around his waist and his son bundled in his arms. He had no idea what sort of nonsense his wife had planned, or who might be about. It certainly did not _sound_ like there was a party going on. He narrowed his eyes and peered down the hall and then slipped into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. 

He grumbled quietly as he laid the baby down on the bed, grabbing up a diaper from the laundry basket. “Your mother,” he sighed, fondness rising up at just the thought of his wife. He suppressed a smile. So, she had not forgotten... “What shall we do with her?” He thought of the state she had been in out in the garage, in the bathroom… her little plan had bitten her back. He hummed.

As he diapered his son, the infant’s wide eyes stared up at him so intently, so trustingly, Illya found himself drawn in, staring back. Not for the first time, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last, he was caught up in the miracle of him, the beauty, the wonder. His _son_ , his child, _his_ and Gaby’s. How had such a thing even come to pass? Sometimes he worried he might wake up from this life as if it were a dream and he would find himself alone in some indiscriminate location. The life of hiding he had always assumed he would lead. 

As he gently maneuvered small hands through the sleeves of a fresh outfit, Illya thought back to the moment he had been informed he would be a father. Sitting at the table in his Moscow flat, going through his mail as he tried to keep his frustration at bay. They had delayed his return to UNCLE at the last minute, and the sense of foreboding had felt acute. Had they discovered his plans? Had they finally realized what had really happened with his mother?

Then the postcard arrived. He remembered so clearly, staring at that photo, the image so out of place from what he had expected. 

A bird in flight over windswept grass — it wasn’t part of the established code. Solo’s handwriting adorning the back had offered no insight, which was the standard. All three partners were well aware that mail was closely monitored. A blank card would be more suspect, so the back of their exchanges were often filled with random bits of information that was intended to seem like truth out in the open. This note had read: _Flying all the way home and boy are my arms tired!_

It had taken Illya almost a day to realize the bird was a _stork_ and the implication that went along with it. He’d left his post in the middle of the next day, bursting into his flat to pick up the postcard again with shaking fingers. It had been a thin thread of reason that had him manufacturing a response instead of abandoning everything and flying home right then and there.

“I tell you this because you can not yet misunderstand me,” he said out loud as he lifted his child into his arms, now fully dressed. “But learning of your existence almost put me out of my mind.” His son opened his mouth on a wide yawn that ended on a small squeak and Illya’s heart stuttered, his whole body sinking into his happiness as he smiled. “But never doubt this, my son, you are the best, most precious surprise your mother has ever given me. I will never regret one thing I had to do to bring us here, to this place, this life.”

Illya dressed quickly, throwing on a geometric button-up over a clean, white t-shirt and denim trousers. He did one last check in the mirror before leaning over his son again. “Now,” he sighed, “Time to face the music, as your Uncle Cowboy would say.” The tone of his voice sounded greatly put upon but as he settled the infant on his shoulder and stepped out into the hall, he had to work a bit harder than usual to hide his grin.

…

Gaby looked up from the tray of food she was arranging when Illya walked into the kitchen. 

“I am ready,” he grumbled, looking around the empty room. “Where is this party? I want to get this over with.” His sigh was just a little too big to be sincere.

Gaby shrugged and stood up, crossing her arms. “What party?” She looked around, catching Solo’s eye over the window sill. He made a motion to let her know people were still leaving out the side gate and she carefully maneuvered herself toward the living room. Illya’s attention followed her just as she wanted. 

Her husband narrowed his eyes at her. “Gaby…”

“I never said there was a party,” she tossed back with a light air, stepping forward to take the baby from him. “ _You_ are the one who said there was a party.” 

His narrowed gaze turned into a full scowl. He held up a finger and followed her into the living room where she settled their son into his play-yard. “Do not try to play coy, wife. You were being sneaky. You are making food—”

“You are opposed to snacks? Is this a communist thing?”

Illya was shaking his head while Gaby blinked up at him. “No no no. That is not what is—”

“I am learning so much—”

“You think you are being clever—”

“—now that we are fully living together…”

“—I can see right through you…”

The sound of the doorbell interrupted them and they both turned toward it. Gaby felt her heart stutter, her stomach swooping.

“A _ha_ ,” Illya declared and the look of victory on his face almost distracted her from the bout of nerves. 

Gaby lifted an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to answer it?”

He looked her over suspiciously and moved toward the door. Gaby shadowed him.

“If I answer it, I will send them away. Tell them there is no party,” he threatened. There was no heat behind it and Gaby could tell that his resistance at this point was mostly because he enjoyed being contrary. 

She lifted a shoulder and settled back on the wall next to the door to look up at him. “Do as you like, it’s your birthday.”

Illya nodded as if to say ‘just so’ and twisted the knob. He stood tall, put on his most stern expression, and pulled open the door. Waverly stood on the other side, smiling benignly, his hands in his pockets. Illya blinked.

“Ah, here are my two ‘rogue’ agents.” 

“What are you doing here?”

Waverly’s lips lifted with humor. “It’s a pleasure to see you again as well, Kuryakin,” he said blithely. “Or should I say, Kurya _kins_?”

"You're _late_ ,” Gaby admonished. “I was starting to worry.”

"Yes, well." He turned his smile to her, the crinkles around his eyes deeper than ever. "I do apologize but the lady did want to look her best."

"What lady?" Illya asked with a frown.

Doctor Poole, (or _Hannah_ as they were more likely to call her these days,) came up the steps just then, straight blonde hair swinging over her shoulder. She was wearing a cute brown jumpsuit with a wide belt that made her look even taller than she already was. "Hello," she called, grinning widely. "Is this the party?"

"No party," Illya said smugly, crossing his arms as well and looking down at Gaby. He turned back to their guests. "Of course you are welcome to —" 

His words fell off suddenly as another person stepped into view. Gaby’s heart twisted tightly, full to bursting with how much she loved him as his expression changed from faux stern teasing to stunned awe. 

"Mama?" His gaze flitted frantically over his mother’s face, taking one halting step forward, then two before he was pushing past Waverly to take the woman into his arms, lifting her off her feet. “Mama...” he breathed, burying his face against her and hugging her tightly. 

The woman pulled back and cupped her son’s face in both her hands. Her voice carried across their small porch.“ _Syurpriz, Illusha.”_

Gaby stood back, her eyes stinging with restrained tears. She chalked it up to motherhood making her soft. She was hardly aware of Hannah coming to stand beside Waverly, or the way the two of them were watching her. She only had eyes for her husband and his long-awaited reunion with his mother. 

"Thank you," she whispered to Waverly, not looking at him. "I know it was a risk but —"

"I assure you, Gaby," he offered. "Everything is fine. The negotiation is secure."

She turned to him then. "Thank you."

"Khvatit suyetit'sya," she heard Illya's mother say. "I would like to finally meet my daughter-in-law."

Illya's eyes lifted to her and something in his face made her chest constrict but lighten at the same time. He held his hand out toward her, even as he ushered his mother forward, and Gaby went to him. Nerves fluttered in her belly and she smoothed a hand over her blouse and slacks, hoping she looked acceptable. 

Tamara Romanovna Kuryakina had lovely, dove gray eyes, the softness of which did nothing to hide the keen way she looked Gaby over. She was tall, though nowhere near Illya's height. Ash blonde hair streaked with silver, a fine jaw, high cheekbones and a straight nose, she was beautiful, even with her age showing in the fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. 

Gaby felt her chin tip up ever so slightly and hoped she didn't look too stubborn. " _Zdravstvuyte, missis Kuryakina_." Gaby held out her hand and continued in Russian. " _It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person._ "

" _So this is the woman who has won my Illyusha's heart_." Those sharp eyes studied her carefully one more time, then she lifted a hand to cup Gaby’s face. " _You have a stubborn chin,_ " she said and Illya stiffened beside them, but her hand was cool on Gaby's cheek and something about the touch, the look in her eye, eased that nervous twist Gaby had been feeling in her stomach all day. "I _like_ it."

She smiled and Gaby felt herself return it as the woman gave her cheek a soft pat. 

" _You will need it to put up with him_ ," she added, tapping the back of her hand into Illya's chest. 

"Mama," he murmured, shifting on his feet. 

" _Trust_ _me_.” Gaby grinned up at her husband. “ _I already know_."

Illya shook his head and looked away, but there was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. 

" _Now_ ," Mrs. Kuryakina demanded. " _Where is my grandchild_?"

As if on cue, the sound of a baby crying echoed out the open door and everyone turned to look back into the living room. Solo was standing near the play yard and Gaby almost snorted when he lifted his hands, palms out, and took a step back. 

“It wasn’t me.”

Gaby laughed, moving toward the door but Illya stopped her with a soft touch. He took her hand, then his mother’s and led them all into the house, Waverly and Hannah trailing behind. 

Illya patted Solo’s shoulder when he drew near, then stepped forward alone to retrieve his son. Gaby watched the way his face relaxed, the sense of wonder that came over him whenever he looked at their child and absently pressed a hand to her heart. Motherhood had definitely made her soft. 

“Are we leaving you out?” Illya asked his son as he tucked him into the crook of his elbow. “I understand, _malysh_. Come though, you must cheer up and meet your _babushka_."

Gaby’s attention turned to her mother in law as Illya turned. The woman’s eyes latched on to the infant, her chest stuttering slightly as she took a breath. Gaby’s own chest felt tight as she thought of herself in this woman’s position. This woman and her son, all they had gone through, and suddenly Tamara Kuryakina wasn’t the only one with tears in her eyes. 

Illya’s hand on her waist as he drew her against him was a welcome weight, anchoring her in the moment and she tipped her head back to look at his face. 

"Mama," he said gently, turning the baby out to his mother, pride and emotion filling his voice. "This is Asher Illyich Kuryakin, your grandson."

…

A little over two hours later Illya approached Solo where he was manning the excessively large grill Gaby had borrowed. Cowboy was wearing an apron that said ‘kiss the cook’, which was also Gaby’s work, and Illya couldn’t quite repress the pulse of contentment that had half a smile brightening his face. 

“Is her ladyship ready for her supper?” Solo asked.

Illya looked down at the plate in his hand and then back at his partner with a smirk. “No, I am just here to enjoy your company.”

“Why Peril,” Solo gracefully turned a hot dog before looking up with faux sincerity in his eyes. “I am touched.”

“Hmm, I would not touch you. I do not know where you have been.” A smile broke through his attempted facade, and the two friends shared a look.

Solo’s smile was broad. “Well, in that case.” He bent down to the cooler beside him and pulled out a bottle of beer and opened it on the ready bottle opener on the side of the grill. Illya raised a brow; maybe not _all_ of it was excessive. He accepted the bottle when it was offered and took a long drink. 

“Thank you.” The words were weighted with gratitude that went beyond just the beer.

Solo caught his eyes again then nodded, turning back to the grill. “The burgers are just a minute or so out.”

Illya nodded and turned to look back at his mother. She was speaking with Mrs. Simmons, who looked fresh and completely un-wilted despite her morning without an air conditioner. Both women were smiling and he enjoyed seeing his mother like this. While he was sure that she’d had social circles back in the USSR, and that she had them now in Italy where she lived, he rarely got to see her interacting with them. Now she was here, amongst his neighbors, his family. It felt both right and melancholy at the same time. 

He’d had two hours with her all to himself. Two precious hours, crafted and organized by his wife when he’d thought he would have to wait years for things to settle enough for them to visit. She and Waverly had used the excuse of his birthday party as cover. How they had accomplished it, he had no idea. He wasn’t going to question. _Besides_ , he thought, looking around at the gathered people, laughing and talking. Kids playing chase across his yard. _Maybe parties aren’t so bad._

Gaby had not brought him a cake or made him blow out candles, but there had been gifts. He tried to eschew the whole affair. Of course no one had let him. It was always difficult to have that amount of attention directed at him but with Gaby at his back, rubbing his shoulders and his mother at his side it had felt almost… nice.

“So this is your life now.” Solo’s voice cut into his thoughts and Illya turned to watch him carefully flipping the burgers. “No more espionage, no more missions. You’re… a handyman.”

Illya made a little snort. 

“Okay okay, you’re a handyman who secretly does R&D for UNCLE, but still?” Solo shifted his stance and looked up at him. “Don’t you miss it? The... adventure?”

Illya considered his answer. He loved Russia, the people, the land, the culture. There were definitely things he missed about his country. He had been very good at his job and that sense of competence had helped him in many ways. He wouldn’t deny that he had enjoyed the work of it, the problem solving, the adrenaline rush. He missed working with Solo too… His gaze fell on Gaby as she moved from guest to guest, Asher on her shoulder. 

It wasn’t as simple as missing one type of work or having a preference. It was a question of value. _And this?—_ he thought as his wife looked up and made eye contact with him, almost as if she had sensed his gaze and thoughts upon her — _This is worth everything._

“This life will be its own adventure,” he offered Solo and took another drink of his beer.

Gaby caught her husband’s eye as he approached with a plate of food for his mother. He had scoffed at the BBQ when she first led him outside, but Gaby saw the hint of his smile now, the way his fingers shifted on the neck of the bottle of beer in his hand as his eyes drifted over the people who had gathered there in his honor. Her heart still swelled over seeing him with his mother and with the previously unrealized benefit of his mother seeing _him_. Seeing the life he would lead, meeting the people who surrounded him when they were apart. How many nights had this woman spent awake fearing for her son? Gaby could hardly imagine it. 

Her attention fell to Asher, who was cradled in her mother in law’s lap, awake and alert, his wide eyes following anything that came near enough for him to focus on, which was currently the plate his father was holding out. Her heart twisted at the thought, even the vague notion of him being taken from her, and she had to swallow back the lump of emotion that tried to block her throat.

_“Would you like me to take him again so you can eat?”_ Gaby asked in Russian. She knew Illya’s mother spoke some English but that she would always be more comfortable in her own language. The woman shook her head.

“Oh no, I am keeping him a little longer.” She smiled at Gaby as she shifted Asher to one leg. “I have done this juggling act before.”

Gaby’s eyes flitted to Illya and she smiled. “I suppose you have.” She knelt down in front of the pair to catch Asher’s attention, talking to him briefly before looking up at the woman who held him, her thoughts on motherhood and the realization that Illya had once sat exactly there, on that lap, in those arms. The lump of emotion returned, and her voice was a little tight when she spoke. 

“Do you have everything you need, Mrs. Kuryakina? Would you like more coffee?”

The woman’s eyes were kind as they settled on her, dove gray and full of gentle strength. _“Please, call me Toma, we are family now.”_ Gaby’s chest ached at the words and she nodded, looking down at Asher’s feet to keep from revealing too much. 

“Of course,” she replied. “Anything you wish.”

_“My son is keeping me well fed and hydrated.”_ They both looked up at Illya, who was engaged in a conversation with Waverly about increasing the battery life of some bit of tech. Toma’s smile was all motherly indulgence. _“He will make me fat if I am not diligent.”_

Gaby laughed. She had felt much the same when Asher was brand new and she’d spent so much time sitting with him she had lamented the effect on her ass. Illya had plied her with food and drinks, always worried.

“ _He is a good son.”_ The affection, the pride… touched Gaby. She loved Illya beyond words, and to meet someone, see someone else love him as he deserved, satisfied her deeply. 

“He is a good husband,” she offered in return. “A good father, a good man.”

There were tears in Toma’s eyes as she laid a hand over Gaby’s, which had settled on her knee. 

_“What are you two murmuring about,”_ Illya asked, kneeling down to be eye level with everyone.

“We were talking about you,” Gaby told him. “Your mother was telling me what a naughty boy you were when you were small.”

“I was no—” Illya cut off halfway through his denial and looked up at his mother. “I—”

Toma tipped her head back and laughed, the sound full of life and freedom. She reached out to cup a hand around his head, pull him in to kiss him on it. “You were good boy,” she assured him. “ _Not that he didn’t get into trouble. I have many stories to tell you!”_

“Mama…”

_“I want to hear them,”_ Gaby insisted with a smirk at her husband. Asher chose that minute to fuss, scrunching up his face in the pre-show for his rare crying jags. _“He is probably hungry again. He is insatiable,”_ she reflected, looking up at Toma. _“_ Aren’t you darling.” Gaby lifted Asher up and kissed his belly. “Hungry, hungry man.”

Toma sighed, her eyes following the baby as Gaby stood to her feet. _“He will be grown before any of us know what has happened.”_

_And she won’t get to see most of it first hand._ The thought struck Gaby like a slap in the face and her gaze fell to her husband who took his mother’s hand and patted it gently.

…

As she carried Asher into the house for a quiet place to nurse, she took a moment to lament this particular unfairness of their situation. 

Getting Illya’s mother out of the USSR had required finesse and strategic planning. Extracting _Illya_ had required a negotiation as fragile and volatile as leaky dynamite. A precisely executed game of chess that was made all the more difficult, and more _crucial_ , when Asher had come, unexpectedly, into the game. The rules were laid out, a carefully struck balance of hiding and out in the open that let them have this life. 

Illya had been in Moscow at the time, there for an internal assignment that was meant to last three months. At first, Gaby had assumed she’d just contracted an inconvenient case of the flu. It had been Bonnie, three children in at that point, who had recognized her ailment for what it really was. 

Gaby had swung from denial, to frantic over what steps to take, from angry at the timing, to complete and utter awe at the very idea. She still remembered standing in the bathroom of her old apartment, palms laid over her still flat belly, acceptance and understanding seeping into her being. 

A child. Hers and Illya’s. 

She had decided to wait to tell him, let him finish out his assignment without stress. They, along with Waverly had been carefully laying down the foundation for his defection for years, there was no need to worry him needlessly at this point. Then Moscow had extended his stay… the communique had felt almost ominous. Waverly had felt it too, she’d seen it in his face. 

It was Solo who ended up informing Illya of the situation awaiting him back home and things had almost ended up very differently. They’d had a backup plan, of course, a much riskier, more _final_ arrangement, but they had never planned to enact that scenario with a baby on the way…

To this day, Gaby had no idea just how many favors Waverly had cashed in for them, how many strings he had pulled, what pact with the Devil he had struck. Sometimes it bothered her to think of all she owed the man, but as she settled Asher at her breast, stroked a finger over his soft cheek, she knew she would do it again, without question. 

She hated that Illya must be so far from his mother but it had been determined the safest thing. The entire situation was still so new, they needed to keep from rocking the boat for a while. And the woman had made a place for herself in Italy now. 

Maybe, at some point— 

“Gaby.” Illya had spoken quietly, but the sound of his low voice still made Asher stir, his eyes fluttering half open before closing again as he nursed with renewed vigor. “You do not need to hide back here,” he said with concern as he crossed the room to her. “My mother would not be offended.” 

“I know, but I thought he would do better without the distractions.” She smiled at him as he knelt in front of her, putting a hand on her knee. Broad and cool and heavy. Familiar. Perfect. “Why? Are you feeling too disgruntled about your party? You need me to come protect you from the onslaught of people…” her grin widened, revealing a dimple. “Wanting to _chit chat_?”

He huffed a laugh and turned away a moment, squeezing her knee.

“Are you angry though?” she asked then, gentling to really consider him. “I know you don’t like parties but, it seemed the best way.” She cleared her throat at the bout of sentimentality. “Besides, I… wanted to celebrate you.”

He looked up at her, surprise widening his blue eyes. “Gaby—”

She gave a little shrug. “I suppose I love you.”

Illya rose up and kissed her. One quick and hard, a second slow and tender, returning the sentiment. He took a moment to kiss Asher’s head as well before settling back on his haunches. His gaze lifted from the baby back to her with a sly smile on his face. He imitated her shrug. “Party is not so bad,” he offered. “But I do hate chit chat.” 

Gaby laughed, and switched the baby to her other breast. Illya reached up to refasten the detachable cup of her nursing bra. 

When everyone had re-established themselves, she found her husband focusing intently on her face. “My mother… Gaby, I cannot say how much—”

“You don’t need to say anything, _meine Liebe_.” She put her hand over his and gave it a squeeze. “I only wish she could stay.” 

He brought her hand up and kissed her palm, ran a thumb over the pearl that still adorned her finger. “Things are as they must be,” he replied. 

“I am happy for her to see you like this,” Gaby squeezed his hand. “Having this little man has brought so many things to light… What she must have gone through. Watching you…” she pinched her lips together as her chest pulled tight with emotion. _Soft soft,_ she thought. It was all too close. With Asher in her arms it almost brought a sense of panic to think of him enduring all that Illya had. “For her to see you here, to know you are surrounded by people who care about you. It’s good.”

Illya swallowed, kissed her hand again, hiding his face against her knuckles. When he looked up at her again, his eyes were full of emotion — love and concern. “Are you all right? Perhaps I am broaching a subject you do not wish to discuss but I cannot help but think, since Asher was born, that you must—”

“Miss my own mother?” she finished for him, her voice a little sharp and Illya settled back a bit, his eyes sad. Gaby gave a slight shake of her head in self admonishment. Of course he would see it. No one knew her better than he did. “Not her specifically,” she offered, her voice taking on a fragile edge. “I don’t remember her well enough to miss her, but _a_ mother… sometimes.”

He leaned forward and kissed her knee. “I know it is not the same,” he told her. “It cannot come close, but,” he gazed up at her and Gaby got lost, not for the first time, in what she saw there. All his sincerity, the truth of the man he was, and his profound love for her. “You can have mine.”

“Illya,” she breathed, her heart full. No, it wasn’t the same. She would be a source of help when concerns arose, maybe even a comfort, but Toma would tell stories of Illya as an infant, as a small child — like so many mothers did. There was no one to tell those tales of Gaby. Had she been fussy, colicky, peaceful? When had she taken her first steps, said her first word? There was no one left on the earth who knew the answers. They were lost to her forever. The lap she had once sat upon would never hold her son. And yet… to share anything of Illya’s was a precious gift. None more so, perhaps, than his mother and she was touched deeply by it. She nodded, squeezing again the hand that still held hers. “I would like that.”

…

As afternoon began to shift into early evening, their neighbors slowly faded off back to their homes, leaving only a small assemblage of UNCLE family. They had moved inside as the party diminished, settling into the small living room, a few people gathering around the dining table. Illya watched Solo and Gaby reminisce about a particularly complicated mission they had once taken on in Morocco, both their faces alight and engaged. His mother sat quietly beside him, her hand on his knee, her presence, the peace coming off of her, soothing in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. His son’s weight on his shoulder, another comfort, and Illya realized that he was _happy_. 

He had already known that of course, in some insubstantial way, but this was real, concrete, _true_. How long had he forbidden himself to dream this dream? Since long before his imaginary wife had a face, or his impossible child had a name. And now, here it was, staring him in the eye. He, Illya Kuryakin, was _happy_. 

Had the universe really allowed this to happen? 

He made eye contact with Gaby across the room and he felt it, both as a balm and a blade. The spark in her eye reminding him of their interrupted morning, their stolen moments in the garage. The embers of earlier arousal warmed him but were kept at bay. Eventually everyone would leave and they would be alone. He could wait a little longer. 

A knock at the door seemed to catch everyone by surprise, heads turning, agents going on alert. All but Solo, who smiled at the floor. 

“Who else are we expecting?” Gaby asked, looking around the room. 

“It’s just a little something I arranged,” Solo said, tucking his hands into his pockets. Gaby and Illya both narrowed their eyes at him suspiciously. “Why don’t you two answer the door together.”

“This had better not be another present,” Illya warned, standing to his feet and securing Asher to his shoulder with a broad hand.

Gaby hesitated, scrutinizing their partner (he would always be their partner) before dropping her arms to her sides. She opened their front door and went stock still, sending a bolt of apprehension through Illya. Instinctively, he rushed to back her up, stopping just as suddenly as she had when he came up behind her a second later and saw former Prime Minister Boris Novak standing there. He looked well, older but in good health, and was flanked by two very severe looking security agents. However, it was the small boy standing in front of him that had all their attention.

Novak smiled, not seeming bothered by the complete lack of greeting. “Hugh, I would like you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Kuryakin.” His tone was cultured, but warm and fatherly. “They are the ones that brought you back to me.”

Illya brought his gaze up to the man at last. “Prime Minister, I—” he began, but then Gaby dropped to her knees in front of the little boy and Illya’s attention followed her, caught by the look of bittersweet joy that overtook her face.

“Hello, Hugh,” she greeted gently, her voice unsteady with the hint of tears. “I’m Gaby, and this,” she reached up to tug at his hand and he accepted her direction, crouching down beside her. “This is Illya.”

“Hello, Hugh.”

Familiar dark and curious eyes looked between them. “Hello.”

…

Gaby retreated into the kitchen, ostensibly to get more snacks, but in reality she needed to calm the swell of nerves she felt at having Hugh and his grandfather in her home. She had never expected to see him again and she was surprised at how deeply she was affected. 

She set her hand over her heart and took a deep breath, then went to work assembling the treats she still had left to offer. The sound of light footsteps entering the room drew her attention and she turned to find Hugh standing there, watching her. 

Her little Beast was no longer a baby but a _boy._ A little boy, with short pants that exposed his knees, one of them adorned with a small bandage. He was still young enough to carry a pudge to his small arms and a baby-softness in his cheeks and she found the sight incredibly endearing. His hair had gone a little red, but so much about his face was still very much the same.

“May I have a drink, please?”

Gaby smiled. “Of course,” she replied. “Would you like water or, perhaps, some orange juice?”

“Juice?” 

Gaby wasn’t sure if he was uncertain of his choice or the word, so she retrieved the pitcher of orange juice from the refrigerator and watched his reaction. His eyes lit up and he smiled, relaxing a bit from his formal stance. 

“How old are you, Hugh?” she asked as she poured, glancing at him from the side. 

He held up one hand and one finger. “I just became six.”

“Six!” she exclaimed, as if it was the most impressive age, and honestly it was, in a way. Six years. Somehow so many and so few all at once. “Your English is very good.”

“Thank you,” he replied, ‘th’ sounding a bit more like an ‘f’. “ _Dedek_ says it’s umportent.”

Gaby smiled. She supposed that was a big word. “It is certainly handy,” she admitted, offering him the glass. She expected he might run off then, go back to play with Bonnie’s kids who had been building with blocks in the living room. Instead, he looked around her kitchen and up at her again. 

“What are you doing?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m making some more food for everyone.” She looked him over. “Would you like to help me?”

He nodded enthusiastically and her heart did a little twist as she suddenly remembered looking down at him in a bassinet aboard a villain’s train, worried he would cry at the sight of her but getting a smile instead. 

“All right then.” She lifted him up and set him on the counter next to the sink. “First we need to wash your hands.”

She ran the water and gave him the soap. He looked quite serious as he worked the lather over his small, chubby fingers. After a moment he looked up at her somewhat solemnly. “ _Dedek_ told me that you and Mr. Kur-akin saved me from bad men.”

Gaby slowed down in washing her own hands, her mind running over his words and what she should say. “That’s right. You were very little.”

He nodded and pushed his hands under the flow of water to rinse them. “I heard Varuška say you were spies.”

Gaby’s eyes went wide. “She told you that?” She handed him a towel.

He shook his head. “She was talking to Pepca,” he explained. “She didn’t think I was listening.” He looked up, his deep brown eyes very serious. “I am always listening.”

Gaby tried to suppress a grin. Hugh handed back the towel. 

“You don’t look like spies,” he reflected. 

“No?” she asked, picking up one of the finished treats and setting it in his clean palm. She looked up and saw Illya watching them from the doorway, his eyes catching hers in that silent communication they had mastered so well. He was as emotional as she was. “Well then, consider this your first lesson in spycraft, _Liebling_.” She leaned forward, focusing on Hugh again and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Spies very rarely ever look like spies.”

…

Eventually the time came for things to end and their guests drifted off, one by one, headed back to their other lives. Solo had been the last, aside from Illya’s mother, waving them off with assurances of another visit soon. Illya knew they were true. The bond formed between them was one that could not be broken by mere distance or change in circumstance.

Beside him, his mother sighed, drawing his attention back to her. 

Toma’s pale hair shown silver in the moonlight as Illya walked with her across his front lawn. He stopped halfway, letting his gaze trip over her and she turned her face up to him with that knowing look only a mother had. 

“This is wrong,” he began, his voice low. “You should stay with us.”

“Your bride has already tried to convince me, Illyushka, many times. In her letters as well as today.” Her smile was wide and soft with motherly affection. “My things are already at the hotel. Besides, you do not have room for me.”

Illya frowned. “I am buying a bigger house.”

Toma laughed. “You have become a capitalist so soon!”

His eyes flared at the accusation before he fully realized she was teasing him. His faux scowl was affectionate. _“Never_ , but next time you come, we will have a place for you.”

_Next time._ It hung between them like a promise.

“I would like that.” She cupped his cheek and gave him a pat. “For now, this is as it should be.”

Illya sighed, not finished with his arguments. “I should at least drive you to your hotel.”

“When Mr. Waverly is already going to the same place?”

“Mama…”

She huffed softly and took his face in both her hands. “Stop trying to be perfect Russian son,” she admonished. “You are already perfect. You have beautiful wife who loves you, friends to help you, healthy son. I am so _proud_ of you.”

He blinked in the face of her praise. “I just…”

“I know.” She took his arm, laying a hand on his forearm. “Our time is short and borrowed but… I will be back tomorrow. We have the whole week.”

Illya stopped again and pulled her into his arms. “ _YA tebya lyublyu, mama_ ,” he said into her hair, quiet and earnest. 

She hugged him back, her fingertips pressing into his skin. “ _YA tozhe tebya lyublyu, syn moy._ ”

…

After seeing his mother off with Waverly and Hannah, Illya made his way slowly back to the house, his thoughts running over the day’s events and how they intersected with the past. As he closed and locked the front door behind him, he stopped and hung his head, resting a palm against the white wood frame. 

He had learned something new today and he couldn’t stop going over the new information, his mind abuzz.

Before he left, Waverly had taken him aside and finally explained the deep and necessary role Prime Minister Novak had played in his defection. How his information, his influence and his connections, had allowed for him to leave so much sooner than their original plan and for Gaby and him to live out in the open, safely, as they did. Allowed them to still work for UNCLE, to not have to spend their lives looking over their shoulders. 

Could that debt ever be repaid?

He shook his head. He would discuss it with Gaby, she needed to have this information as well. Together, they would come up with something. 

The image of Hugh standing in his doorway, healthy and well, filled his mind. He’d watched his curiosity and exuberance throughout the evening with a sense of awe, thankfulness and pride. He and Gaby had a part in that. They had carried him through, against any number of impossible odds, they had returned him safe. That little boy was still here because of _them_. 

If it had been his son who had been taken — the thought pierced him in a way he had never felt before and he pressed the heel of his hand to his chest — what _wouldn’t_ he give the one who brought him back?

Pushing off the door, Illya cast a quick look around his now empty, quiet living room. Even though he found relief in the return of peace, he couldn't say he hadn’t enjoyed the party. It had been a welcome thing to see his fellow UNCLE cohorts again, to have Solo there, the neighbors he would share this new life with. It had been… nice. 

He smiled to himself as he realized his wife might understand him better than he understood himself. 

That wasn’t to say he was going to condone her sneaky actions. _In fact_ , his smile turned mischievous as he made his way down the hallway, he should probably punish her. Yes, punish her for playing such a trick on him, for leaving him in such a state all day. He hummed aloud as he pushed open their bedroom door, already making plans. 

Gaby had put Asher to bed after saying goodbye to his mother, so he didn’t expect to find her in their room, but there she was, splayed out in the middle of the bed. Her hair was spread out prettily around her head and she was dressed in a set of satiny, dark lavender lingerie with black lace around the edges and over her breasts. The ensemble set off the lines of her body and the tone of her skin. It teased as much as it revealed. She was gorgeous, stunning and fast _asleep_. 

Illya bit back a sad laugh as she let out a quiet snore. His wife. God, how he _loved_ her. 

Disappointed but not upset, Illya stripped out of his clothing, folding the items and setting them aside. He paused at the side of the bed, wanting to memorize the moment, then climbed in beside her, causing the bed to dip. 

Gaby stirred, turning toward him. “I’m awake,” she mumbled, then more firmly. “I’m awake, I’m awake.”

He chuckled. “You are _not_.”

“Yes, I am,” she insisted, throwing an arm around him.

He took hold and kissed that arm, caressing her soft skin with the tip of his nose and breathing in her scent. “No, wife, you are not.”

She pulled back and glared at him. “Don’t tell me what I am, _husband_ ,” she bit out. “Just kiss me and I will show you.”

“ _Solnyshka,_ ” he said softly. “You are exhausted. I cannot—”

“Yes you can,” she countered. “Make love to me, Illya. If we wait until we aren’t tired it will never happen.” She kissed him and he sank into it, deeply tempted, craving her with more than just his body. She snaked a hand between them, lighting little fires along the skin of his belly before stroking over him intimately.

“ _Moya lyubov'_ ,” he breathed against her mouth. “You are making it very difficult for me to be a gentleman.”

“I don’t want a gentleman. I want my husband.” She hooked a leg over him, drew him closer. “Please, Illya, I need you. I want you inside me again.”

He groaned at that, dropping down to kiss her, this time deeper, surrendering completely. Gaby smiled against his lips, victorious, and kissed him back, ran her hands over his body, touching him everywhere, all the places she had missed. Illya growled and tucked his face into her neck, biting at her earlobe and sucking at her pulse point. 

“You had better not fall back to sleep.”

Gaby chuckled through a sigh, her hands in his hair. “Oh, I think you will be able to keep my attention.”

He grinned, running his nose over her collar bone. Kissing his way down her chest, he pushed the fabric covering her breasts aside, taking one into his hand and squeezing gently. “I will never grow tired of how beautiful you are,” he said, and kissed the rise of her nipple.

Gaby ran her nails lightly over his shoulder blades. “Even when I am old and gray?”

He hummed, still nuzzling at her breast. “Especially then.” She scoffed lightly but he ended it by taking the little bud into his mouth. He knew her breasts were not as sensitive to his caress after weeks of breastfeeding but he still lavished each of them with attention before moving on. He kissed across her belly, pushing the satin up to get to her skin, and down to the black lace that edged her panties. Curling his fingers beneath it, he tugged them down and Gaby hummed as she lifted her hips to allow their removal. 

Kneeling on the mattress, he yanked them from her feet and tossed them aside, pulled each of her ankles in for a kiss. She smiled and poked at his cheek with her toe, drawing out a soft laugh. He ran his hands up her legs, over her thighs, massaging her there until she made a little sound of pleasure. He leaned forward and kissed her belly again, the hollow of her hip. Back within reach, her fingers carded through his hair. 

“What are you doing down there?” she teased.

“I am picking up from where I left off,” he muttered into her skin. “Before you _abandoned_ me.” Gaby chuckled then gasped as he slid his hands beneath her ass and lifted her up to his mouth, sinking into taste her. 

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed out, arching up into the already dramatic incline, her hair twisting on her pillow. 

Illya hummed his agreement. Bringing one of her legs over his shoulder, then the other, he buried himself there, tongue tasting, hands holding her steady, and she bit her lip to keep quiet. He took his time mapping her out, delving into all his favorite, familiar places, places he had missed, the ones he knew would make her twist and writhe and gasp. She fisted a hand in the sheets, tried to dig her heels into his back, and he closed his eyes to savor her. The taste, her scent, the soft muffled cries she was working to suppress, all had him hard as a rock, his cock heavy between his legs. 

“I thought,” she panted. “Illya, I thought you wanted to be inside me?” It was a play, he knew, to make him hurry, urge him on. Even after all this time, though he had never once left her wanting, she was still always so impatient. 

“Mmmm.” His voice was a low growl against intimate flesh and she jerked in his palms, then groaned wantonly. “I do,” he acknowledged. “I will be. Very soon.” He laved the flat of his tongue over her, sucked tenderly. “But it is my birthday. I am allowed to be greedy.”

“Oh god,” she moaned and trembled as she took in another breath. “Yes, all righ— _Ah!_ — alrightalright…” she kept murmuring words of acquiescence as she turned her head, pulled the pillow to her face and cried into it, sharp and needy.

It made his cock throb to see her like this and he groaned too, going a little deeper, setting a precise rhythm. He dragged one hand from her bottom, pushing it between her legs to tease her entrance. He felt her readiness and slowly slid a finger inside. 

Gaby shouted, then smacked a hand over her mouth and Illya jerked his head up to check on her. Worry tinged his voice. “Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t stop!” she said, rocking her hips up. “God, don’t _stop_.”

His breath caught at the desperation in her voice and he dropped back to his work, finding the one thing he knew she loved best, and tested her with a second finger. He watched from between her thighs as she arched up, her mouth falling open soundlessly. The orgasm rolled through her, wave after wave. He drew it into himself, that pleasure, made it a part of him, thought of how blessed he was to be the one to give it, the one to be here with her. He followed her through with well-practiced touches until she went limp in his hands. He kissed her inner thighs, caressed her with the tip of his nose and, even though his body was begging to be lost in hers, he thought about returning his mouth to her, sending her over again. Both because it pleased him and because he wanted to be sure she was as ready as he could make her. 

As if she could read his mind, Gaby tapped his back with a heel. “Come up here,” she demanded breathlessly. He set her legs down and obeyed. His wife grabbed at his shoulders and drew him in, smiling. She kissed his mouth, caressed his neck. “Satisfied?”

He kissed her back and then frowned with faux concentration. “I am not sure,” he dragged a hand up her thigh, ran questing fingers over her. “Perhaps you should let me do one more…”

“Illya,” Gaby laughed softly, then gasped at his touch. “We are parents now, we no longer have the luxury of _time_.” She was cupping his cheek and her gaze fell to her fingers as she dragged them over his lips. “As much as I love your mouth.”

He humphed, rebellious, and tucked his face into her neck to suck at the tender skin behind her ear. Gaby ran her hands down his sides to the small of his back, her fingers digging greedily into his skin. When he lifted up, Gaby dragged her fingers over his erection and he drew in a breath, watched those fingers, her agile hands, even though he felt he could hardly take another moment of waiting. When she swiped her thumb over his tip he groaned and bucked into her grip. “ _Gaby…_ ”

“Yes,” she rushed out. “Come on.”

Hurriedly they stripped away her remaining clothes and arranged themselves, years of lovemaking bringing them into perfect position so that he was able to look down into her face as he entered her. She gazed up into his eyes, one hand holding his face, the other digging fingertips into his back. He felt the perfect heat of her body as it accepted him, drew him inside, and he moaned into the air between them. Gaby whined as he withdrew, her breath caught as he pushed back, a careful advance and retreat until he was fully seated within her. He huffed out a breath of restraint as he paused there. Gaby smiled, biting her lip, eyes closed. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, a little ashamed of the strain in his voice.

“Yes. I _missed_ you here,” she said and he kissed her, deep, greedy. She rolled her hips into his, letting him know she was ready, making him groan. He pulled back, slid forward again. 

“You feel like heaven,” he told her, rocking into the press of her body to his. She lifted her leg, taking him just that much deeper and they both cried out with the pleasure of it. 

They moved together, bodies finding their rhythm, familiar and new all at once. Gaby clutched at him, met him thrust for thrust, and he lost himself there, found himself there, over and over again. In her embrace, in her dark eyes staring into him with earnest pleasure. He had never stopped being in awe of this, of her, of _them_. All the years of his life he had considered himself unworthy, but — _god_ — he must have done something worthy to have her, to have Gaby be the one, to belong to her this way. 

She asked him for more and he gave it. She arched into him, bit his shoulder and he growled, picking up his pace as the sensation went straight to his cock. Her voice called him, urged him, directed him and he followed, rolled, gave, pushed deeper, and then she was coming. His beautiful, perfect wife, saying his name in breathless invocation. He answered her, breathed out his love as he let himself go to follow after her. 

Rolling to his back, he brought Gaby with him, their dampened skin clinging as he tugged her onto his chest. She tucked her face into his neck, humming, kissing him there and he dragged his fingers down the length of her spine. 

“Still got it,” she teased and he chuckled, hugging her closer. He kissed the top of her head, then her mouth when she tilted her face up to his. 

Gaby traced the line of his eyebrow, over the scar at his temple. She knew its story now, knew every part of him. The truth of it still stunned him sometimes. 

“I love you,” she said. Her eyes were fathomless in the dim light of their room and Illya held his breath as he gazed into them, weightless, happy, _home_. 

“I love you too.”

Asher’s cry carried down the hallway to them and they both sighed. Then Illya smiled. “I will get him while you clean up.”

“Okay.” Gaby kissed him quick and slid from the bed.

…

Asher stopped crying at the sight of his father, his kicking legs and shaking arms settling down, a little sob escaping. Illya reached in and lifted him up with a gentle murmur of comfort, settling him against his chest and tucking him beneath his chin. “Did you have a bad dream, _malen'kiy_?” he asked, knowing the rumble of his voice was something that Asher found soothing. “You woke up and you were alone. It is all right that you called. I am here now.”

He sighed, relaxing into the stance as he began to sway. He set a gentle rhythm with his hand on the baby’s back and started humming a familiar tune. A smile lifted at the corner of his mouth as he thought of Gaby’s reaction if she were to hear. 

“ _Tili-tili-bom… Zakroy glaza skoro…_ ” he began, then changed to words, making his own melody. “ _Tvoy otets seychas zdes'_ _nechego boyat'sya._ ” As he sang, his mind wandered over the memories of the day: its beginning, its twists and turns, all bringing him to this moment in time. His heart swelled, snug within the cage of his ribs. 

It was one thing to dream, to fantasize about the future you wished for yourself. It was another altogether to live it… because there were dreams and there was reality. Dreams were rose colored and tidy... 

Asher wobbled, trying to lift himself under Illya’s protective hand, his clear eyes looking up at his father’s face. 

Reality was better. Unpredictable, uncooperative and messy sometimes… but infinitely better. 

Because it was _real_.

He heard the flush of the toilet across the hall, water running in the sink. He cupped the back of Asher’s head and smiled at him as he sang. “ _Vot idet mama_ … _Ona idet ... Ona uzhe blizhe._ ”

…

Gaby heard the murmur of Illya’s baritone as she made her way down the hall and smiled when she rounded the door to the nursery and found him there. He was standing in the moonlight with their son on his shoulder, singing quietly as he swayed from side to side. He looked up when she entered and beckoned to her. She slid into his side, wrapping her arm around his bare waist. 

Asher was staring down at her with wide, very awake eyes and she smiled at him even as she sighed internally. She was exhausted, and of course he was wide awake but oh how she loved him. He was growing and changing so much every day and he was so rarely like this, she supposed she couldn’t begrudge him a sleepless night. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have them. 

“Let us hope he did not inherit your insomnia,” Illya whispered, as if reading her mind. 

“I don’t think so.” She took one tiny foot between her fingers and gave it a wiggle. “I think it was just a busy day.”

They continued to sway together, Gaby’s tired body leaning into Illya’s tall, stalwart form. “You are tired,” she heard her husband say. “You should go to bed. I’ve got him.”

“Let’s bring him with us.” She looked up at his face. “I want you with me tonight.”

His gaze softened and he nodded. 

They carried him back to their room and settled together in the large bed, Illya laying with Asher on his broad chest, patting him steadily. Gaby tucked her hands beneath her cheek and watched them until her eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer. “Happy birthday, Illya.”

“Thank you,” she heard him say, and blinked her eyes open again to find his eyes on her. “Not just for today, but for _this_ , for my life, for everything. You and Asher are the best gift.”

Gaby gazed back at him: his blue eyes, his handsome face, his mussed hair. 

Years ago now she had kissed Illya Kuryakin at a market in Jordan, surrounded by the dust, the spice, and the bustle of the crowd. It has been a cover kiss, a distraction intended to avert the eyes and attention of those around them, to hide in plain sight. But as she had pressed her lips to his, had felt the warmth of his mouth on hers, she had let herself indulge in the feel of it, lost herself in the sense of rightness that swept through her. When she had pulled back and looked into those stunned blue eyes, she had been overtaken by the most terrifying realization. 

Terrifying for a German woman who had just kissed a Russian man, terrifying for a girl who had lost everyone she had ever dared to love, and an _extremely_ inconvenient realization for a spy who had just kissed her partner. 

She wanted to kiss Illya Kuryakin, and no one else, for the rest of her life. 

She stared at him, there — in their bed, in the midst of their life. Someone new, someone their love had made, rested on his chest. Her family. Sidling closer to them, Gaby reached up and ran her fingers through her husband’s hair, which made him smirk at her. She did love him mussed and he knew it. Her hand settled on his cheek and she looked into his eyes, everything she felt at that moment evident in her own. 

“Don’t you know this yet?” she asked tenderly. “ _You_ are the gift.” He sucked in a breath. “You dared to dream what I never would have imagined for myself.”

“Gaby—”

“Even when you thought you shouldn’t, even when it was hopeless. You brought me into that dream and I will always be thankful.” She looked at Asher, ran a hand over his back, then raised her eyes to Illya’s again. “My family, my _home_.”

Illya pushed an arm beneath her and pulled her tighter into his side. He kissed her hard, then gentle, before tucking her against him. She let her head settle on his shoulder, her gaze falling on Asher, gnawing on his fist. Illya kissed the top of her head, hot breath rustling her hair, warming her scalp and drawing out little goose bumps over her skin. 

“ _Our_ home.” His voice was gruff with emotion and Gaby closed her eyes, absorbed the sound, the sentiment, the moment. 

“Yes,” she whispered back as sleep began to pull her under. “ _Our_ home.”


End file.
